


In Captivity

by Fluffyllama (Llama)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Character Death, F/M, Imprisonment, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:56:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/Fluffyllama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Captivity is the greatest of all evils that can befall one.</i> <span class="small"> - Miguel de Cervantes</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	In Captivity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for for . Contains non-consensual sex, character death and violence/disturbing content in general. Despite initial appearances, none of the sex depicted is truly consensual. You won't find romance here.
> 
> To avoid any confusion with the timeline, please note that the lengths of time given are specific to the character(s) in each section and not indicative of a single overall timeframe.

**Two months, three days**

Pansy knows this is going to be a good day before she opens her eyes.

It's the scent of freshly toasted bread, strawberry jam and coffee that gives it away, along with the rattle of teacup and saucer on the tray. There's a moment where her stomach gives a lurch for no good reason she can think of, but when Ron pushes the door open his face is all smiles.

Yes, this is a good day.

"I thought I might go shopping," Pansy says over tea and toast. "Diagon Alley, perhaps. It must be open again by now."

Ron looks up, licking sticky redness from his lips. "I don't think so," he says, his brows drawing together into a frown. "You haven't been well lately, and you need to take care of yourself. Diagon Alley is always a prime target for Resistance troublemakers. And anyway," he smiles, "you went shopping yesterday. All the way to Hogsmeade because you wanted those owl treats, of all things."

"I did?" she says. But now she thinks about it, she remembers something like that. Yes, it's growing clearer now. How on earth had she forgotten that?

The house doesn't seem to need cleaning today, but Pansy sweeps the floors anyway. Something about the repetitive motion soothes her, and there is much that frays her nerves in this house for some reason, gnaws at her like the pain in her stomach that is always there, a hunger not satisfied however much she eats. Silver frames hold pictures (static photographs, and surely there's no ban on simple magic of that sort? She must ask Ron) of people she doesn't recognise, none of them even with red hair so surely not Weasleys. Nondescript frizzy-haired women abound, and bespectacled men.

She changes the water in the vases that hold flowers; they are everywhere even though they are Muggle varieties, no use for any potions or charms she knows. She wishes she'd paid more attention in Herbology; she'd be able to grow some more useful ones herself. And if only she had a wand she'd be able to freshen the place up in a second, but Ron just laughs when she says that.

Hardly anyone has wands any more, only the Dark Lords inner circle and those they directly control. At least they have their freedom -- it's more than some people have, and she's grateful, really she is. It's more than she expected to have after Lord Voldemort fell…

Except no, that isn't right. Lord Voldemort hasn't fallen; she mustn't say things like that. She gets confused sometimes, that's all. It's hard to remember what's real, hard to remember what's a dream.

Perhaps she's dreaming now. That might explain why she's in this house that she knows is home, but doesn't look anything like it should. Like the time she dreamed she was shopping at Madam Malkin's, but for some reason the place had stone walls and suits of armour in place of mirrors and that fuzzy wallpaper.

She frowns at the large vase of daffodils on the kitchen counter. Such nasty, common flowers, why on earth would she have those in the house? Only the roses meet with her approval, blood red and not that awful garish yellow. Why are there so many flowers?

"Happy anniversary, darling," Ron says, and his eyes are bright in the candlelight, even though it can't be evening yet. Did she fall asleep again? That happens more often than she'd like these days, and it makes her terribly confused.

It doesn't really matter, but—oh! Of course. An anniversary would explain all the flowers.

Ron is so thoughtful, even if he doesn't know the right flowers to buy.

He never forgets important things, and he's patient with her when she has one of her confused 'moments'. He still carries her upstairs when she's nibbled her dinner and downed a couple of glasses of wine, still dances a few steps with her to the soft music he has prepared and playing in the bedroom.

His hand shakes a little when he pushes her dress off her shoulders, and lowers her to the bed. She used to think it was nerves, because it took so long for him to touch her, but she knows better now. When his hands are steady, those rare occasions now, it's perfunctory, adequate by their standards. Adequate for the near-Muggles they are now, she supposes.

When his hands tremble…

"Tell me," he says, and his teeth press a little too hard around her nipple. "Tell me about the last time you saw him."

It had been such a good day. She should have known it wouldn't last.

His fingers feel good inside her at first though, thumb circling hard on her clit just the way she likes it. She doesn't know why it turns him on so, why he needs to hear this. She'd thought maybe today, with the music and everything--

\--but no. Long years under the Dark Lord, even in relative peace, have taken their toll on everyone, she supposes. And he does so much for her; she can do this for him.

"I was in the Dark Lord's rooms," she tells him, as if he doesn't know the story. "He... he likes to keep his pets there."

She can almost feel the collar still tight around her throat, the bars of her cage still cold against her skin every time he yanks her close to stuff her mouth full of his cock. Ron never asks her to do that. Sometimes she wishes he would, wishes he would let her stop talking.

"And Harry, he was there?" Ron's hardening against her, she can feel it. "You said he was there."

"He was in a cage next to me for a long time," Pansy says, because if she doesn't keep going then neither will Ron's erection, and he won't like that. "Lord Voldemort, he used to like making him scream. He'd send curses at him for hours, then let his men—"

"Not that bit," Ron says harshly, rolling them over so he's underneath her, and part of her is relieved. Sometimes he likes hearing about how the Death Eaters shared Harry around, she can never tell which way he'll go on any given day. She's less keen on the way he mirrors those stories on her body, because he's even rougher when he takes her that way, and she can never breathe properly with her face in the pillow. "Tell me about the other, when you—"

"The Dark Lord liked me to ride him. Ride Harry. They'd get him naked, hard, and drag me over to—"

Ron pushes until her legs straddle him, his cock sliding slick between her wet lips.

"--to sit on him." Her voice falters, but she keeps going. "To sit on his cock—"

Ron pushes his hips up and pulls her down at the same time, filling her, and she winces, because yes, it was almost exactly like that.

"--and ride him until we were both raw. I don't think either of us ever came."

"Curse damage can do that, according to some studies," Ron says, shoving his hips up hard to meet her movements, and Pansy can still hear the echo of bloody Hermione Granger in that every time he brings that subject up, but she can forgive it. It's hardly a matter of life and death, not like some of the things he likes to talk about.

"So Harry was alive, last time you saw him?" His thrusts are faster, harder, and his nails are digging hard into her hips but nothing in her is responding, nothing feels alive in there, not in her. Maybe she isn't.

"Alive and fucking half the inhabitants of the castle, willing or not," she says, and she can't help it if she sounds bitter.

"And you don't think the Dark Lord will kill him."

"Believe me, that's not going to happen." Pansy can barely speak now, it almost hurts to think or talk, and something strange is happening to the walls. The floral wallpaper keeps turning to stone, and maybe it's another dream and the room will be full of suits of armour when she looks again, but she's so tired and she aches all over.

Ron pulls out of her, giving up hope of a satisfactory orgasm for either of them as usual, and since it's over she's just going to curl up here and close her eyes now.

Maybe tomorrow will be a better day. Right now she doesn't really care.

 

**Years: | Months: | | | | | | Days: | |**

"Why isn't it going to happen?" Ron shakes Pansy's shoulder, and he knows he's shouting but she just _won't wake up_. "Why are you so sure he's still alive?"

She doesn't stir, even when her head bangs down hard on the stone floor.

"Ron, stop it." Hermione's face is grey and drawn, eyes as shadowed as the corners of the dungeons. "You're going to hurt her."

"Like you care." Ron sits back on his heels and pulls the tattered remains of his shirt across his chest. There are only two buttons left, so he doesn't bother fastening them.

"I do care," Hermione says, her voice even wearier than her face. "I don't like what we're doing, but it's the only way to find Harry, we need information—"

"And I was about to get it!" Ron pushes himself to his feet, careless of his half-nakedness as he paces up and down the cell. "Why couldn't you have kept the illusion up for a few more minutes?"

"Because I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm cold, and I'm working with a near useless wand," Hermione snaps. "And the illusion was slipping for a little while there, so it's probably best that she passed out like that." She reaches out to move the chains out of the way so Pansy's arms aren't lying on them, and throws a blanket over the skinny, naked girl. "It's easier when I concentrate on a place I know, but I have to change things or she gets suspicious. And I can't stand-- I can't help it, it always happens when—"

"When you get emotional, I know." Ron doesn't look at her. "We can't afford emotions, Hermione, not if we want to get out of here. Not if we want to break Harry out with us." The cold is getting to him more now, outside the illusion, and he pulls on his jeans, stiff with dirt and god knows what else. They scratch at his legs but at least they are a layer between him and the chilly depths of the Dark Lord's castle. "We need to get answers, and softening her up is the only thing that's worked so far."

He doesn't say the torture was more fun, but it's true. He doesn't know what it says about him, but he'd rather pull fingernails out or give them a dose of unreliable curses from their makeshift wand than touch another Death Eater, sympathiser or Slytherin intimately, even if none of them are much better off under their precious Dark Lord than the likes of blood traitors or the Muggle-born.

He has nightmares about fucking Pansy's unresisting body, but he dreams about how he made Lucius Malfoy bleed and scream, dreams it in vivid colours that his eyes have almost forgotten how to see.

Pansy disappears somewhere under torture though; she shuts herself off in her mind, and they can't make her speak no matter what they do to her. Treating her kindly, even if it's for a short time, even if it's not real… that's the only way they've made her talk to them, but it's been slow going in the couple of months since they captured her.

"Do you know how lucky we've been?" Ron says. "Malfoy, and then Parkinson? We can't rely on catching anyone else down here, not without getting back nearer to the cells, and risking that we're going to end up locked in there again."

"I know, I know."

"We need to get what she knows out of her, even if—" He can't look at Hermione's face, not until he hears her whisper it.

"Okay."

 

**Year of our Dark Lord: 2 Month: 3 Day: 12  
First Anniversary of the Fall of Lord Voldemort**

Harry should be sleeping, but relaxation is hard to come by these days. Even the expert mouth on his cock and the fine blond hair tangled in his fingers bores him today, so it's a good thing Ron and Hermione are being so unexpectedly entertaining. Hermione's agreement to Ron's plan had been a surprise, but one that sent a rush through him that was better than anything he'd felt in _years_.

Yes, he'd done the right thing setting them free to run around down in the dungeon level. Even if they find a way out, which is next to impossible -- never impossible, he's not going to make that mistake. Not after Hermione had produced enough magic for an illusion spell from a wand cobbled together of several different broken pieces, let alone after she'd produced rudimentary effects from her own combination of Muggle herbalism and traditional wizard potion-making from the few scarce and poor ingredients she'd found underground. Well, and perhaps a couple of things Harry had let her find, because he was curious to see what she'd come up with.

Anyway, even if they find a way out, they won't leave without Harry. That's the most marvellous thing of all.

Watching his wild pets is so fascinating he hasn't left the castle in months. The conquering of those stubborn last pockets of wizard rebellion and Muggle resistance can wait.

Maybe he'll delegate the task. When he has a moment.

"I don't think Pansy will last much longer," he sighs, and smiles as the mouth doubles its efforts around his cock. Too little, too late, as he would find out very soon. "Perhaps I should send a gift to Hermione this time? She looks like she could do with some attention."

Harry pulls sharply on the fine strands of hair, until with a yelp the owner of the mouth is standing in front of him. He trails a finger over the boy's face— he'd call him a man, but he's painfully thin and wasting away in front of Harry even as he looks at him – and beckons over a tall, robed man.

"You know what to do, Draco," Harry says, not looking at either of them. He clasps Draco's thin, bony hand in return when he feels the pressure of fingers, however reluctant, and waits for his minion to produce his wand for the Bonding.

"Will you, Draco Malfoy, swear to tell no-one, by statement, omission or any other method, the name of your Dark Lord?"

"I will." The response was hoarse, but Harry was pleased as the flames licked around their hands. He'd expected tears at least. Draco was _devoted_ to Harry, of course. All of Harry's pets were, whether inherited or newly tamed to his service.

"Will you also swear to never reveal that I sent you to the dungeons to be captured?"

"I will." A gulp that time, but the flames linked and swirled, flared bright and glorious for a moment until Harry saw Draco turn his eyes away.

The deed was done.

"See that you keep your word, Draco." Harry smiles, and pats his hand in what he thinks is a kind farewell gesture, though Draco flinches as he hasn't done in months of serving Harry. "Or those same flames will consume you."

Harry watches the guard's progress as Draco is escorted to an easily accessible cell on the lowest level. When Draco is left alone, the flash of anger that passes over his face before he gets it under control tells Harry that he made the right choice.

Yes, this should keep him entertained for _months_.

 

**Years: | Months: | | | | | | Days: | | |**

Hermione can barely keep the illusion up for an hour the next day. This is all falling apart on them, they are running out of time. Running out of options.

"Tell me about Harry again." Ron shakes Pansy, over and over, and ignores Hermione's half-hearted pleas to stop, stop, don't do this.

"Why are you so sure he won't be killed?"

"Ron, don't—"

"She knows something, something she's not telling us."

"I don't think she—"

"Tell me!"

 

**Two months, four days**

She almost doesn't do it.

Not for her own sake. Certainly not for _His_ sake. But once they know, once Granger and Weasley know, it might save them.

They don't deserve to be saved. But then again, does anyone? Perhaps it will be worth it just to see the looks on their faces. Perhaps it will make them lose hope instead.

That would be worth anything.

Next time they ask she tells them the truth, and she laughs as the flames set her free.


End file.
